At first, the Mana Knights stood frozen—not by strategy, not by calculation, but by fear.
Their confidence, once so deafening, now thinned to silence.
The massive, hunched creature loomed before them, its grotesque form framed by the broken tunnel behind it, still slick with fresh slime.
The floor beneath it was wet, and where it had emerged, something else lingered—a thick, ruptured cocoon. Steam rose from its surface. The slime glistened like oil in the dusk light.
It looked like it hadn't simply walked out, it just went there naturally and stood there, not moving.
"This… this thing is still wet," Caven whispered with a trembling voice.
One of the knights stepped forward. "Then it's fresh. Weak. We strike now before it matures."
They rushed, swords out, runes glowing.
Their blades arced, stabbing downward—one after the other.
Chuck! Chuck! Chuck!
They struck its shoulders, sliced across its back, impaled what they assumed was its head.
